Passion, Madness, & The Opera
by Erik's Other Lover
Summary: This dark tale continues long after the tragic movie ending, which left O.G. to his lonliness with his music as his only companion, but time has only made him more possessive and demented. He now finds pleasure in others anguish and so it begins! R&R!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

What I seek to do here perhaps cannot be done in words. Perhaps it can only be done in music. I want to try to do it in words. I want to give to the tale that only a narrative of sorts can furnish—the beginning, the middle, and the end—the charged unfolding of events in phrases faithfully reflecting their impact on the writers.

You read that correctly: writers. Not one, but two. Two voices acting as one greater voice...or not.

You should not need to know the demons I mention often within these pages nor the torments and woes, which they so cause—the music there was both bitter and sweet—my words shall impact the very essence of the sound to you: the music.

If not, then there is something here which cannot be written.

But since it is the story in me, the story I am compelled to unfold—my life, my tragedy, my triumph and its price—I have no choice but to attempt this pointless record. Even if it is all in vain, I sit here scrawling on yellowing parchment with quill and ink soon to be bound in this leather covering.

As we begin, do not seek to link the past events of my life in one coherent chain like that of melodious notes to an aria of a great opera. I have not done so. It cannot be done. These scenes came forth in waves of disarray, as chords played carelessly in haste from the dark of one's madness and fury like that of the devil once he is given a fiddle. And were they strung together, to make a perfect harmony, in which two voices sing as one—and my years are the very same as the notes of gratifying music—grand and many—my past would not make a set of mysteries, not sorrows, nor joys, or torments. No such music could redeem me. So I give you the flashing moments that matter here.

See me, if you will, not as I am now as I write. Age today is nothing: merely a number and nothing more. Picture me if you must as I was: six feet two inches tall, thin, with a strong torso that has remained quite built despite the lack of my activity, but with dark hair, and broad shoulders. Again, age has not changed my facial expression I had when I was of youth—indifference, self loathing, intelligence, torment of inner demons...I could go on. But when I cover myself in dark elegant dress and flowing capes, I see a former phantom—another shadow in the dark—stalking the halls—on the walls—an indestructible being not of heaven nor of hell that has grown numb to the land of the living, but is itself one of the undead.

My face was a joke in the eyes of God—If he is indeed there, the supreme being that created all men, why mock me so? I do not jest what is concealed by mask. It is typically the façade of a phantom—a secret ghost. Green orbs for eyes, and my hair, black and slicked back with the most rigorous care against my skull—a mask as white as ivory, if you will—disguises my worst features, which is the source of my sorrows: others fear and loathing. "Opera Ghost" is what they have said of a man like me—if I can be considered a man when humanity itself has shamed me into solitude and shunned me like a leper. My features are insignificant.

If I were to catch the eye of the passerby, it was completely accidental and unintentional by my own wandering and watchful eyes—they are at fault as well for searching the shadows for invisible phantoms that haunt their mind as they stroll on alone in the gloom. Only those who wander in the dark corridors at night might glimpse this phantom—this opera ghost. When our gaze does meet for that brief second or two, fear and fright meet madness and malice, and for that instant I truly look ghostlike. They flee in terror. They always flee…as she had fled

You wish for a number of my years? I do not conceal this deliberately, for I can be sure myself. One can only guess. Perhaps half a century? How long has it been since I paid homage to music? How long has it been since catastrophe? How is one to know when one is incapable of measuring life? How can one measure life when one only wishes for the comforting cradle of death?

In our later years, it does not mater what age, most wander as their health will allow them to—some freed, powerful, dressing as they desire—as the young ones do, sitting with feet propped up or strutting about, casual like a fop or dandy—preserving youth to the very end or as far as life will allow. I have had no such luxury nor do I desire it as I once did. It sickens me so.

So that is your hero, if a hero I am to be. No—not a hero—a demon perhaps. Perhaps only a man—not a hero. No, heroes rescue the damsel in distress and win her heart and whisk her away to a happily ever after. Not a hero, it is not my place. Perhaps I am the demon—the adversary—the enemy...or perhaps I am the victim of this cruel story.

And your heroine? Ah, she had lived beyond me in ways I never could fathom.

This tale begins when he came—like that of a dark angel and guardian—a sinister and troubled charmer—a secret embodiment of romance, a mysterious being of magic and illusion, the tormented and loathsome angel in hell—and the artist, genius, and composer behind it all, which he was, and most deservedly was so. He was true to his title, exquisite and profound, tragic and alluring, and he paid for all that he was. He paid.

This is...what happened.

* * *

I must admit that this is quite different from how I normally write...in this diary format, if you will. Think of it as an experiment of sorts. I would greatly appreciate any reviews that you would see fit to submit. Thank you for reading and reviewing (if you choose to do so).

Happy Day,

Erik's Other Lover

B.T.W. I would just like to let you fine people know that I have edited this chapter and the following ones after this and I would like to apologize if I have missed any grammatical or spelling errors.

Disclaimer: Of course, I own nothing associated with _Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera_. I wish I owned our dearest misunderstood O.G. though. *tear*


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Diary of Little Belle

They say I am going crazy. They say I need a way out of this. Their eyes show concern and their voices speak hurtful words. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows. They all know.

Mary-Ann presented me with this journal—rather she thrust it into my hands just before she left. Loneliness has forced me to write and so I shall, but will it take the pain away? Will it relieve me in some way—this writing?

And where do I start? So much has happened within the last few days…I will start with him. It was he who began this—this crazy. Or perhaps I have always been this way…It is not fair to put blame on him, I suppose.

So I will write. And I will begin with him, he deserves it.

He came the day before Julien died.

It was late afternoon, and the theater had a drowsy dark look. No bodies moved about the opera house—no visible bodies: only Julien and I.

It was Christmas holiday. All employees; dancers, singers, musicians, stagehands, and managers alike, all were sitting home with their families or out having celebration with dear ones. I had stayed with Julien not because I wanted to, but rather that I had no where else to go. No family, no home, no friends, I was an outcast and so I remained here in the prime of merriment and cheer.

That is not entirely true. I stayed behind with Julien because he was ill and unable to travel to see his family. Was it guilt or just an excuse? Even if he was well, I would have stayed behind unless he would have begged me to depart with him. I was not one for festivities…never was, but it was actually more than that. Much more.

Julien had not the strength to leave his bed and I grew warily bored with the constant watching him and waiting, occasionally tending to him, and worrying. The worry was the worst. That was too much for my drained mind. I had decided to go for a walk and clear my mind in the crisp and cool wintertime air to pass the time. He slept anyway. It is not like he would miss me.

The traffic of horse, man, and carriage was roaring as it always does in the forever eventful streets of the city of Paris. I had browsed the markets as I walked the snow covered stone streets not looking for anything in particular, but an escape. A distraction, to take me away and free me from reality. Surely something must be better than this!

I saw him come walking down the street as though it were casual to do so. No one paid attention to him except me. Perhaps it was only me who saw him—only my eyes. But, this could not be happening, I had told myself. It is just your mind playing tricks on you. This isn't real. No one else sees him…crazy.

When he reached the corner closest to me he did not continue his trek and cross the street. Rather he stood just off of the left of the florist shop just sheltered in the shadow of the alleyway between two buildings. He turned and cocked his head and looked at me. I was hidden in the crowd of Frenchmen bustling past me, among the vendors, or so I thought. He merely stood and looked at me—and turned as though he had come to the end of his walk and would return, slowly, by foot as he had approached back to the opera house—just another casual evening street stroller.

He was tall and powerfully built, but not in an unattractive way. His black hair was perfectly neat on his head: slicked back, not a hair out of place. I remember I liked the way he looked from the back when he turned around. I remember his cape on account of that—it billowed behind him in the winter wind. It was sprinkled with snow. I remember that because the snow was so white against the fabric. It was the blackest black I have ever seen; almost as though if something were that black, it would swallow the color of everything around it and the way it broke off so rough and ragged and long and so pretty.

He had green eyes; I could see that much over the distance of the corner and despite that he wore a white mask on the right side of his face I could see his eyes were sculpted into his face so that they can be secretive, beneath an arching brow—one was visible—until you get really close. His mask puzzled me, but made him all the more mysterious. The right side of his face was entirely concealed except for his mouth and a small portion of his chin.

He looked at me and then he looked past me perhaps at some display of a nearby vendor. Who am I trying to fool? His eyes never left me. And then off he went with steps too ordinary, I suppose. But what did I know of ghosts at the time? Or how they walk when they amble about in the city streets.

He did not come back until two days after Julien died. I had not told anyone of Julien's death. The emptiness and silence of the opera house lied for me.

These two days were my own.

***

In the first few hours after Julien was gone, I mean truly gone, with the blood gathering down to the bottom of his body, and his face and hands and legs turning very, very pale, I had been elated the way you can be after a death. I had danced and danced to music of my own creation. The music within my mind that allowed me not to succumb to hysterics or tears. Dancing was the music and master of my dark heart and my angels as well, the commander of my broken life and of all of my failures.

The first night when Julien's body was only six hours dead, after I changed the sheets and cleaned up Julien's body and set his hands at his sides, I could not listen to the music anymore nor could I dance with the angels. Let Julien be with them. Please, after so much pain. And the novel Julien had written, almost finished, but not quite—its pages and pictures strewn within this bedroom, his sick room.

Let it wait.

So much pain.

* * *

I hope you have all caught on to the fact that the following chapters will alternate back and forth between O.G. and Belle, if not...well now you know. And for you simpletons who are still lost: odd chapters = Phantom and even chapters = Belle.

Bonsoir,

E.O.L.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

I turned to my music as well, dear girl.

I sat at the organ of my lair—the cellars beneath the opera house and further down still into the dungeon of my black despair and into the prison of my mind. There you will meet darkness deep as Hell itself. It remains untouched by those of the mortal world…those above. Only a ghost knows the way down that dark pathway—over the glassy lake and through the maze of tunnels is my domain: a cavern down below my opera house. A dark and dank place filled with my inspiration and my miseries...and my music.

My sanctuary and my prison.

And my beloved music.

I had been composing a new piece unlike any I had done before. It was my own raw heart, blood, and sweat in these notes. I played the torture part. I played in frenzy with my long fingers clad in black. They glided skillfully over the ivory keys. My music could not carry me up and out of this misery; it was time for anguish, and I knew and the symphony of my emotions knew. No matter what happens or when what tormentors come the music continues and keeps me going for whatever sick purpose.

It is angry and vulgar music, the music of some one walking vengefully up a steep mountain. It goes on and on and on, as though the person refuses to stop their determined trek. Then it comes to a quiet place, as if the person is suddenly breathless and exultant and has the view of what he so desperately wants. It is quiet and subtle music here. I could almost taste the peace and stillness of the person standing there, but then...

Then the intensity returns. And the uphill march begins again, the determined walking and walking. Walking and walking. It is endless and a futile effort to try to reach the top. He—this person—never reaches his goal; it is always just beyond his reach. Always and forever.

You can dance to this music if you so wish. That is why I write it—in hope that one day she will perform it. You can dance, swing from the waist, back and forth like you are mad, or turn in circles, making yourself feel quite dizzy. You can walk round and round. Pace and pace in a grim circle, as I do, fists clenched, going faster and faster...and then the music disappears. But…

This is relentless music. This person is not going to give up. Onward, upward, forward, it does not matter now—hills, mountains, woods, rivers, or hell, it does not matter. All that matters is music and that you walk...and when that little bit of hope comes—terminate it in the advancing steps. Because there is no stopping. There is no time for hope. There _is_ no hope.

Not until it stops. Not until the music stops and my fingers lay gently above the keys. I am shaken and out of breath, covered in a new layer of sweat. I am exhausted.

But I shake it off and start again, bow my head, and let the movement go on, independent of all else. Human fatigues and hungers are forgotten, to me. All that matters is my music. And maybe everything would someday be understood and this life is worth it. I have yet to be proven that either of these things are true.

So, I shall return to my music...

* * *

_My music...music..._Every time I type "my music" or just the word "music", I can hear the phantom singing it darkly inside my head.

Happy Reading,

Erik's Other Lover


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Diary of Little Belle

That night, the night after Julien's death I danced to my music long into the morning; until the room was full of sunlight and the floor reflected its rays. And the sun made big beams through the large stain-glass windows. And above, the ceiling became a smooth white, like a new page on which nothing yet is written.

Once, at noon, I let the whole song of my mind go while I played it out. I closed my eyes. The afternoon was empty, with only the few groundsmen outside, tending to our stage animals: horses, sheep, birds.

A clang. A rattle. A whiney.

Noises that should have been racket and was I suppose. The opera house has never been completely quiet, except in the small hours when I cannot find sleep. Insomnia.

Crazy.

I had laid that day in silence because I could not move. I could not do anything, but lay here on the stage in the grand auditorium and stare up into the blackness of the rafters and suspended catwalks. Shadows moved and an invisible voice beckoned to me. I ignored it. Too tired. Too much pain. Too crazy. I must be going mad.

Only when it got dark again did I return to Julien's room. The sheets were still clean. His body was stiff with little change in his face; I had wrapped his face round and round with clean white cloth to keep his mouth closed, and I had even closed his eyes myself. And though I lay there all night, curled up next to him, my hand on his cold chest, it was not the same as it had been when he was soft.

The softness came back by midmorning. It was just a relaxing of the body all over. The sheets were soiled. Foul smells were there. But I had no intention of noticing them. I lifted his arms easily now. I bathed him again. I changed everything, as a nurse would, rolling the body to one side for the clean sheet and then back to the other.

He was white, and wasted. And though the skin was sinking, pulling away from the features of his face, they were still his features, those of my Julien, and I could see the tiny cracks in his lips unchanged, and the scar just above his left eyebrow was still pink. Still my Julien. Even in death.

This opera house feels like my prison with its marble columns and black cast-iron railings. It is just a theater really, with grand spaces and staircases, and small dormitories carved within. When I was very little I remember wandering through the halls, the sweet smells, like wood and elegance, but now the stench of death invades those sweet memories and they are forever ruined.

I remember that Julien was here before me. He had been right to choose this theater—so bountiful in architecture, right for performing the arts. It had been simple for him.

I never knew why he had come to be here in the first place. He was a writer—not a performer nor a musical writer. I had never questioned him in this. It seemed an improper question to ask. He remained in the position of a stagehand and would sometimes tend to affairs with the managers because of his literary capabilities. He wrote documents and accounts and copied music, but he could never read it. My Julien had not a musical bone in his body nor could he read a single note, but he had given so generously—anything I desired. It was his way.

He spent his days working on his pictures and commentaries of a history I did not know, but it captured his imagination. He had hoped to finish the book before he died. He had almost won. All that remained was the end. I will think of this later.

I would send a letter to Jacques and ask him for advice. Jacques was my first love. Jacques would help. Jacques was a scholarly professor.

I laid a long time beside Julien and as night came, I though, well, he's been dead now for two days and you've probably broken the law. So what?

But what does it really matter? What can they do? Convict me? They know what he died of, that it was the cancer and there was no hope for him, and when they do come, they'll destroy everything. They'll take his body and burn it.

I think that is the main reason I kept him so long. I had no fear of his illness or any such thing. They did not understand. They thought it was contagious. He himself had been so careful always in the final months…he had been so frail. My big and strong Julien had withered away. Even in the filth after he died, I had lain there in a thick velvet robe.

Our carnal moments had been for hands, skin against skin—never the daredevil union. He had insisted that we wait until after our marriage because I was an active Catholic. He had respected me in every way and never asked anything of me that would defy my religion or my beliefs. My Julien had been a pious and God-fearing man.

The cancer had never gotten into me. And only now after the two days, when I thought I should send for someone, I should let someone know—only know, I knew I wished it had gotten me. Or I thought I did.

It is so easy to wish with death, and I have been all my life, and seen its most faithful worshipers crumble in the end, screaming just to live, as if all the dark veils and the death lilies and the smell of candles and incense, and the promises at the grave mean nothing. And now, I suppose they don't.

I knew that, but I have always wished I was dead. It was a way to go on with the living.

***

Evening came. I walked to the roof. I stared out into the city for a while as the street lamps came on one by one. As the lights of the florist shop went on, I felt a cold chill crawl up my spine.

A wintry wind blew.

I thought of my Julien, my dead Julien.

And I thought of the phantom of this theater standing by the florist shop just looking at me. "The Opera Ghost", they call him or "The Phantom of the Opera." Perhaps, this place is his prison, too.

"Poor ghost." I had not been aware that I had mumbled the words aloud. I am crazy. Mad, I tell you! To sympathize with a ghost? Crazy, crazy. I remember smiling; not a happy smile. It was more of a grimace perhaps. I looked out across the grand city of Paris that I had once loved, but now hate, and cursed my fellow Frenchmen for being so merry after my Julien had just died.

I watched as the snow fell so slowly and I thought of my Julien. I thought, well, kiss him goodbye. You know what comes next. He is soft, but then it is decay, and that smell must have nothing to do with him. Not my Julien.

I returned to him. I bent and kissed his lips. I kissed him and kissed him; his cheeks, his nose, and the scar just above his eyebrow. My Julien…I had to escape. He was not my Julien anymore. Death has claimed him as her own.

I went to the kitchen where all the feasts for the galas and balls were cooked there by the best chefs in all of Paris. The kitchen was empty. What did I expect? It was Christmas. I raided the cupboards and the large pantry. I settled for some drinking chocolate.

I sat there, in the kitchen, on one of the countertops and drank my chocolate. It had lost its taste. I ended up forcing it down. I felt nauseous.

Music. I could try again. One more evening alone, with my angels and demons and my Julien before they come running and screaming and take him away. His mother would sob and his sister would scream. I had kept him here for two days, that would keep them screaming all the longer, if I could bare to listen. Kind women they were, but I was never fond of them. I hated them.

In his final days, the nurses would not come nor would the doctors. There are many priests. The kind of priests that stay with the dying until the end, but they were not needed here. It was I at his bedside and it was I who dressed his dead body.

I went back into the grand auditorium and paced to the stage. I wanted to dance again, but I could not do it. The pain was too great. I wanted to…but I could not move…for hours. I heard the music in my head. I heard the racing chords of the organ. It was sympathetic music. I loved it.

I heard the notes echo within the theater. This music was not of my own imagination. I lay there on the stage listening. It was wonderful, far greater than I had ever heard before. It was not of my own mind. No one was here except for me and the dead man back in his room and the invisible hands that played the organ. The floor was cold. The music became quiet.

And then I slept, for perhaps the first time.

* * *

What do you wonderful guys and gals think of this: our new Belle? For some reason she tends to write a bit more than our dearest O.G. Oh, wells.

Laters,

Erik's Other Lover


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

I played my music on for her. Sweet and woeful music winding to a compassionate finale. I froze with my hands lightly resting on the keys of the organ hidden under the stage, when she lies above. Dare I start again?

Even ghosts grow weary and fatigued.

Had she gone back to her dead man? This was no time for music, she must think. How mistaken she is.

It is always time for music. Music is what keeps us sane, lets us live, gives us hope. Music is always there, all that is required of you is that you listen. Music never breaks you heart; it never leaves. Music is infinite.

Music, I curl my back to its notes and weep. I dare not start again. I weep. I dare not.

Why do I play for her? Why do I sympathize for this girl? I know her not. I know not why, but I am compelled to play for her. She cares not for this musical phantom. She knows nothing of this ghost. I play in vain. In vain…for hope.

How foolish I have become! Hope? The word is a trickery in itself. A false hope…for? What? That she might look on me as she had looked on her dead man? That she might succumb to my music? That she might see past this ghost's façade—this mask—this distortion that murders all that is good and whose hands corrupt all that they touch?

I will not think of it!

But…it haunts my mind. Ha! A ghost being haunted! That is a most humorous thought, but sadly true. I do not laugh.

Oh, hell. I suppose it is time to return to the dead man. Perhaps she is there? I need to lay my eyes on her. Perhaps—she is driving me mad! Damn that girl.

My eyes are dry. I replace my mask. I sit still on the organ bench and regain my composure. I once again don the mask of indifference. I climb slowly up one level through a trap door under the stage. I stand just behind the backdrop, the very same one that I had once dropped on that toad—Carlotta. How long it has been!

My fists are clenched. Rage flows within my veins and red clouds my vision. I feel my nails cutting through the leather I have encased them in. My head is bowed. I know not why, but I cannot move. I listen and I can hear breathing. It is she—the girl. She had not returned to her dead man.

My face grows hot beneath my mask. I feel a pulsating pain in my temples. Blood pumps in my ears. I know not why, but I grow furious. The longer I stand there, concealed behind the backdrop and curtain, the angrier I grow.

She has not returned to her dead man.

* * *

It appears that our silent ghost is in much need of some type of release...perhaps a chill pill or some morphine should suffice?

E.O.L. O-U-T


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Diary of Little Belle

And the most beautiful dream came to me.

I dreamed of the sun and the sea, but I had never known a sea such as this, but it was the most wonderful and vast sea I had ever and never saw. The land around the sea was white sand, that glittered in the gracious light of the sunshine.

The sea was glistening, but fierce and so pure under the overpowering sun. I could not see the sun itself, only the light of it. The waves of the green sea came in, crashing against the white sand sending it even greener foam into the air as tiny droplets. The great waves came in. Rolling in. They crashed and did a dance of their own—that I had never witnessed.

These waves came in and broke on the sand, but the greatest waves broke into smaller waves that danced as people would—happy people dancing to a happy song—little people made of bubbles and green foam. And they danced and danced.

And I wanted to join them.

They tried to reach the land or perhaps the sun above. I could not be sure, but they were persistent.

Over and over, I watched these waves form, grow, crash, dance, and die. People of the green foam—dancers and ghosts of the deep sea—that is what they looked like to my eyes. All of the beach that I could see did the same as these waves. They grew and curled and crashed—becoming these great dancers of the sea—pleading for the land. Some of them nodded to each other and then they would disappear back into the great violent sea from which they came.

I have never witnessed the real beauty of such a sea nor any ocean, but this sea I saw in my dream was real enough to me. The sea-ghosts and dancers pranced about with their skinny bodies and flailing limbs, but they held a sense of elegance and gracefulness that I had never saw before.

I felt my dream self smile as I watched. I felt…happy. I could smell roses. I do not know why roses, but I could smell their sweet aroma. Sweet.

How funny it is! Me happy? How long it has been and I thought this all in my dream. A smile tugged at my dream self's lips. How can I—miserable little Belle be so happy when I know anguish and misery so intimately?

But where could this be? I thought of happiness and misery in my dream. I thought as I came closer and closer to the edge of wakefulness. I never sleep for long. I never sleep deep.

This is a dream! Belle, wake up! This is a dream, Belle. You are not there on the beach in the sunshine with the ghostlike dancers of the sea. You are not there in this bright and warm place of the vast sea. You have no roses.

But this dream would not break or fade or show the smallest flaw. I was trapped. But I saw only the sea and the dark and starlit sky filled with the foamy ghosts as far as my eye could see. I called to these ghosts, but the ignored me and fell back into the sea.

I woke. So sharp.

Julien said in my ear: "No, my love! Go back! Not that way! Belle, I beg you!"

I sat up. That was a shocking thing—to have heard his voice and so close to me. It was not a terrible and unwelcome thing, really. There was no fear in me.

I was alone in the grand auditorium. I was sitting on the stage. It was quiet and dim. Quite eerie.

"You were here, Julien! My Julien is here, but I cannot see him! It was a dream—a most curious dream and my Julien was right beside me!"

And then I caught the scent in the air and my Julien's pleas: _No, my love! Go back! Not that way! Belle, I beg you! _It all makes sense. It was his way of warning me.

His body has begun to rot.

I knew that scent. We all know it. Even if we have not been to morgues or battlefields or wherever else they keep the dead—we know it. We know when the rat dies in the wall and no one can find the damn thing.

I knew it…now. It was faint but it would soon be filling the hole theater; all of its big rooms, filling the parlor, the foyer…

But the point is, Belle, you dreamed it. But this smell could not be born. It was not from my Julien. No, not this because this was not my Julien. Not this awful smell. This was not my Julien. It was just his dead body.

This was just a dead body.

Just a dead body…

I did not want to move. Then something made me freeze. It was music, but it was not coming from my own mind—no this music was very much real and it was not music I knew, but I thought I knew the instrument, but I could not place it…

A small string instrument perhaps?

But who plays it so divinely?

No one is here—in this opera house except for me and the dead body of my Julien.

I know it!

A violin!

Only a violin can sing like that! Only such an instrument can plead and cry like that. Oh, how I longed in my childhood to be able to play an instrument such as that, but I never could. My talent was not making music, but rather dancing to it.

Someone was playing a violin.

I heard it. I heard it rise tenderly above the silence that seemed to fill this dreary place. I heard it fall, only to rise again. I heard a mastery riff of notes so fast and ingenious that they seemed truly magical.

I climbed to my feet and stared about for the source of this music—these invisible fingers that played so skillfully. I could not find the source of the music. It sounded as though it was coming from all directions so I relied on my eyes to locate it.

I searched the upper, middle, and lower balconies as well as the orchestra pit. My eyes scanned the private boxes in the dim lighting. I looked above my head—far up into the dark rafters and catwalks and—

He was there. The tall one with the white mask and dark and pretty cape. The phantom I saw earlier on the street. He stood in the shadows far above me on one of the suspended catwalks, and he played his violin as I looked up at him. I held onto one of the large red and velvety curtains on the stage. His music made me want to sob.

I thought I would die of this. I will die of death and the stench in this theater and the sheer beauty of this music.

Why had he come? Why to me? Why, and to play all of things—why the violin? Everyone knows the sorrows only a violin can produce and the way it tortures those who listen to its exquisite song. Why has he come to play it so near to me? Why this ghost?

Ah, Belle, you are dreaming! This is the worst and most hypnotic trap. You are still dreaming. You have not waken. You have not waked at all. Go back and find yourself, find yourself where you know you are…on the floor. Find yourself.

"Belle!"

I turned so abruptly that I almost toppled over.

Julien stood there. On the end of the stage. He stood there with the white cloth wrapped around his face. His face was snow white and his body was like that of a skeleton. And he stood in the black silk pajamas that I had put him in!

"No, do not!" he cried.

The voice of that ghostly violin rose. Then the bow crashed down on the lower notes and made a soulful throb that became a sorrowful moment of expression in my moment of confusion and desperation.

"Julien! Julien, my Julien!" I called out. I must have called out.

But Julien was gone. There was no Julien. The violin continued to sing and sing. It sang and sang on. And when I turned back and looked I saw the phantom ghost with his shiny white mask, and his wide shoulders, and the violin. I could not see his face—only his mask—that white half-faced ghost. His silhouette brought the bow of his torture instrument up and down with such violence that I felt chills run up and down my spine—on my neck and down my arms.

"Do not stop! Do not stop, phantom! I beg you do not stop!" I cried to him.

He swayed like a wild man in the shadow. He played. He played of love and loss and played and played of all the things in this world that I had wanted to believe in. I began to cry.

I could smell that stench of my dead Julien's body again.

I was awake! I had to be. Surely, I could not be sleeping nor dreaming of this odor—this stench of a carcass. I kicked the wall nearest to me, but not hard enough to harm it. I felt pain in my foot. I looked at him.

He turned toward me, with the bow still, but ready to begin his tormenting music once again. He looked down on me and he played a softer and quieter song. He took it down so low that the silence almost drowned it out.

A loud noise startled me. Someone was banging and shouting from the outside of the auditorium.

I remained still. I did not want to leave, but I had to. If they could smell what I could smell and if they caught on that Julien was dead…well, I would have some explaining to do as a sane woman. There was no time for music.

_No time for this?_ A voice caused me to freeze as I began to turn. As I recognized it as his voice, he brought his song—the notes down so low—moaning loud and harsh and then high and piercing sounds. The strings hurt my ears.

I backed away from my musical tormentor. I ran off the stage and down the isle and I burst through the door into a long hallway. I ran toward the yelling voice and as I rounded the corner, I ran into Garret, one of the other stagehands I had come to know—more of an acquaintance than anything really. My face met his chest.

He grunted as I nearly tackled him and he caught me so I did not fall on the marble floor. I remained there, in Garret's awkward embrace, in need of the touch of the living. I buried my face and fists in his white balloon sleeved shirt. I could smell a bit of alcohol and tobacco on him, but it comforted me, strangely enough.

I know Garret must have felt me shaking because he rubbed my back gently. "Alright there, lass?" His voice was thick with his Scottish accent.

I mumbled something into his shirt. I do not remember what, but he hugged me all the tighter. I guess, he knew I needed it.

"It be alright, me lass." He repeated that over and over.

He must have smelled my dead Julien.

He knows.

I tried to pull away from him at the moment, but he would not let me. I tried to push myself from his chest. I could not escape from this man.

"It be alright, lass. Mister Manager has not saw him yet." He was talking about Julien. "There is only three of us here. Francis, me, and you, lass." I wanted so badly to correct this foolish man. Only three of us? He has forgotten my Julien and my ghost!

"Let me go." I had found my voice.

"I best not, lass." He hugged me tighter in his burly arms.

"Please, Garret." I begged him and tears fell again. "I must go to him!"

"Francis is sending for the doc, lass. Ev'r thing is going to be alright."

"No, Garret—" I could hear the music again. It was horrid and mean music. I sobbed and clung to this near stranger as I child would to her mother. I must be going mad, I thought. Garret did not hear this music!

_I know your pain. I know. Madness is not for you, dear girl. It never was and never will be. You are the one who never goes truly mad. _These were the words of that phantom! He whispered dark things in my ears and he hears my thought—and creates music—horrid and beautiful music that I alone can only hear!

Roses…roses…roses…I could smell them again!

No!

Madness! _You are the one who never goes mad, dear girl! Not mad!_

"Garret." I mumbled this man's name to test reality. I must not be asleep again.

"Lass?"

I was awake.

My face was still buried in his shirt as I spoke. "Take me…take me away…somewhere far from this stench and death…and this music…"

"Yes, ma'am." There was hesitance in his voice, but he did as I asked. He pulled me close to him as we walked down the corridor. If he had not kept me as close as he did I would not have been able to make the trek on my own.

Garret was silent and gave me my space, in a sense, as he guided me to the foyer and then outside into the cold winter air. The frigid air stung my body and sent my long brown hair blowing behind me. Garret held me close and I felt him shudder at the wind. It was snowing still and there we stood on the grand stair without our cloaks or coats.

I had never spoken more than two words to this Scottish man Garret. I do not even know his last name. I think Julien might have introduced us once. I cannot recall for certain…

Never had I even gave a second glance to this Garret before, but here I stand now clutching to this man for warmth. I looked up at him from under his arm. He has short curly brown hair and a bit of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He has handsome features, I suppose. And he is quite muscular from his tedious work as a stagehand. His blue eyes stare directly in front of us. He must be at least thirty-five—ten years on me…

I looked across the street and at the far houses with their rooftops covered in a new layer of white snow. My eyes wandered down the streets and I watched the people rushing about. No one should be returning from Christmas holiday for at least two more days.

Oh, no! I see him: the phantom violinist. He is just on the other side of the street. He is too far for me to see the expression on his face and too far to know if he can even see me—he must…or he would not be there. And now he turns and drifts off.

* * *

"Oh, my Little Belle...so lost...so helpless...my Little Belle...how you are in need of my guidance..." I can imagine O.G. singing this oh, so darkly. Teehee. XD

~"E" to the "O" to the "L"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

Perhaps I should have warned her of the consequence of keeping a dead man in my theater. No, she must learn on her own—it must be a self-taught lesson—the very same way that I have learned my music. She must learn and pay for her selfish actions. She will suffer as I have so suffered—and suffer still.

Her dead man's offending stench ruins the atmosphere of my theater. The smell of death is rank to the severity that one can almost taste the putrid and decaying flesh of almost three days dead on the tongue. To think such a smell emits from her lone dead man!

I demand to know why she has kept this dead man so long. Why have I allowed her to do so? Perhaps it is a way to punish her—but for what crime? I know not, but she is far more than guilty.

I cannot have the dead man fouling my theater nor can I bear the presence of this carcass. I need not a rival ghost either—this so-called Julien. One phantom to haunt this theater is good, two would be most troublesome.

This is my realm, my playground, and my architectural domain. I will not share what land is mine with the likes of anyone...especially her deceased lover—of all the bloody blokes in hell.

This is _MY_ theater.

Mine.

All mine.

***

They will take her dead man away today. Perhaps he is not her dead man anymore. I tell myself that he never was...

How I am jealous of her dead man! He has been blessed with death! Oh, how I wish death would grace me with its presence.

Oh, hell! How distractible I can be at times. I curse myself.

Where has the girl gone?

I had been playing my violin, I remember. I was punishing her with my music's sweet sound—my horrible and beautifully taunting music. She must suffer for causing me to suffer and I shall suffer alongside her. Oh, painful music!

She had fled.

Perhaps my music is too much for her simple mind?

She begs me not to stop. She screams at her dead man. She cries and then she flees from me—from my music. She runs to the comfort of another.

A man.

A mere stagehand, a drunken and soiled man in my kingdom...this man!

The nosey imbecile.

She clings to this man and sobs. I watch her from afar. He holds her in his arms. My skin crawls. He comforts her and holds her tightly and whispers in her ear. I cannot hear these words. My blood begins to boil as I stand across the street in the snow. I must cure this. I can whisper, too.

Unlike this strange man, I speak dark and angry words that can only be heard by her ears and her ears alone. She will suffer and wish for death. She will feel guilt for fleeing from her ghost as he pours his heart out in his music. He plays for her and only for her, but she refuses to hear it and she flees. She will suffer.

This dirty stagehand holds her close, in that intimate way that only a lover would. Perhaps there is more to this girl, Belle, that I had thought. His arms snake around her waist and hold her close to him. Has she forgotten her dead man so soon? And what of her ghost? She will learn and it shall come at a price, but she will learn.

She buries her face in this man's chest, to escape my gaze no doubt, and she burrows into him and hides from me. She had seen me. I know she had. There I stand in the snow covered street watching her.

I think evil thoughts. Many, many evil thoughts.

This man—this stagehand will soon be an nuisance, I am sure of it. I must dispose of him. His time shall come.

She will learn that she is alone. She has no one and she never will. No one will ever understand her pains and sorrows. No one can. She has this ghost who haunts her so mercilessly with his music.

Only this ghost.

She will have no other. Her dead man was her last. She is free of him and now I hold her chains in my hands and she cannot break free.

I understand her pain. I know her anguish. I taste her loneliness. I smell her guilt. She shares in my music. She drives it. She helps me create this music that I am so compelled to play. I cannot resist.

She begs me not to stop, but she flees from me! She flees to the arms of a stranger.

Garrett—he has not known her as I have. He does not know her talent and her capabilities. He does not play music for her. He does not appreciate the way in which her body flows with the music when she dances. In here time of agony, I play and play my music for her and for her ears alone.

And she flees to this man!

How dare she!

How dare she push her musical phantom away?

This ghost will not rest, nor can he be evaded so easily. This phantom does not give up. Forward, onward, upward! It does not matter!

Her inspiration belongs to me and my music to her.

* * *

I ask a question: is _this_ obsession? Obsession is defined as the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, and desire (according to my handy dandy lil' ol' dictionary). Anybody out there think Erik is pushing this concept again?

Happy Trails,

EOL 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Diary of Little Belle

I hate him!

I hate him!

Oh, how I hate that insufferable ghost!

He fills my ears with malicious music and my dreams with breathtaking visions! And he tortures me with his music! Why me?

I hate this ghost—this musical phantom!

Although I have found a temporary cure to evade this invisible genius, I never linger alone. Not since my beloved Julien's body has gone, have I been alone. The doctors have taken him. They expressed their concerns and looked me over…and summoned the managers. They want me to meet with them, but I fear what has been said to them…of Little Belle and her rotting and dead Julien, with whom she had slept with and stayed with alone. The must think me mad. I cannot face them yet. Crazy. Too much pain there. Let it wait.

I did not stay alone, for I fear my silent ghost and his music. And it worked. He let me be. Perhaps he understands my grief.

Oh, how I miss his music. Just to hear it again…

But I hate him!

I hate him!

I do!

***

The entire cast and workers will be returning from their holiday tomorrow morning. I am to meet with the managers then. I do not want to. I cannot. They shall send me to the mad house, they will. I do not have the strength to deal with it now.

I had not strayed from the living today nor have I wished with death. I tried my best to appear sane, but it is most hard task: to pretend to be what you clearly are not.

Few employees have returned early; most of them are the cleaners and propsmen and stagehands. I avoided them. They must have heard of me and my dead Julien.

Like I said before, I was scared to be alone. I mean truly and utterly alone in this great building with all its dark corners, looming statues and gargoyles, watchful portraits, winding stair, and long halls. I feared my ghost.

I had remained with Garret for the entire rest of the day. I had followed him about the opera house as he attended to various odd jobs such as securing new props behind the stage and repairing the gas lamps, filling them with oil, or doing whatever a stagehand does with moving and taking down stage sets.

Garret had attempted pleasant conversation several times, but I had not trusted my voice so we remained in quiet. We stayed in that way almost the entire time. Speaking was not necessary and he did not pursue it like I thought he would have. Perhaps he understands or perhaps he fears this mad women. Regardless, he let me stay in his presence.

I was afraid of heights and I always have been, but Garret assured me that there was nothing to be afraid of. Before I climbed up to his levels, I made him promise me that it was safe and that he would not let me fall. Oh, how I am frightened of heights!

"There be nothing' up here to worry 'bout, lass," he assured me as he held out his large and calloused hand to help me up to the lowest catwalk. I looked down and then into his blue eyes, finding reassurance there. I trusted him and his words. I took his hand and let him pull me up to the upper levels above the stage I had never dared venture before.

No matter how much I was frightened of heights, I was more frightened of being alone. I feared the ghost and his music much more than any silly heights.

***

It was late. Very late and past the normal dinnertime for Garret, I guessed. I followed him about the various places above the stage as he tied ropes here and there, tested hangings, pulled levers—making sure everything was in pristine condition.

"Couldn't have a sand bag fallin' on our singin' lady now, can we?" Garret had looked over his shoulder at me. His hands were busy securing some rope work.

I had jumped when he spoke. I had been lost in my own little world of misery and woe. I nodded. I stood three feet from him, with my eyes constantly searched the shadows above.

"Alright there, lass?" he asked. His hands stopped with the rope and he stared at me.

"Fine," I said I bit harsher than I meant to.

"You be rippin' your dress, lass, if ya keep wringing it like that." He gestured to my dress with his large hands.

"Oh," I exclaimed quietly. I had not noticed. Perhaps it was the constant watching for my phantom and the anxiety was getting to me. I dropped my hands at my sides. We stood on a suspended catwalk above the middle of the stage. I looked above me and thought a saw a glint of white disappear from view.

"Did you see that?" I asked more to myself. I gripped the rope railing tightly and strained my eyes against the darkness of above. He was there! I knew it! He was watching me.

"See what?" Garret was directly behind me, now. I felt him lightly brush my back.

"Up there." I pointed to where my silent ghost had been standing only a second ago.

"I don't see anything, lass," Garret said almost sadly.

"But, he was there," I rambled. "I saw him—white mask—I did—"

"Easy, lass." I feel Garret hugging me to him again. His strong arms were around my waist and his face rested down on my shoulder. I could feel his chest on my back. My hands still gripped the rope railing. "I ain't saw nothing up there." His voice was deep and filled with sympathy for this mad women.

"Let me go." I suddenly hated Garret. I wanted to be free of him and his kindness and his concern. The closeness made me feel like I was betraying my Julien and perhaps I was. I grew tense.

"Not 'til ya settle down a bit," he replied. His voice sounded hurt and his grip on me was firm.

"I am settled," I groaned. I searched the shadows above for my ghost.

"I will let ya go on an occasion." His voice sounded playful and it made me feel sick.

"What?" I did not even try to sound pleasant. I squirmed in his arms.

"I'm hungry and ya must be, too," he stated in his flawless Scottish accent.

"I am not," I replied. "Let me go."

"Ya have to eat somethin' sometime, lass," he said kindly. "After all you've been through—"

"What do you know?," I screamed at him. I tore away from his arms. "You do not have a clue! You—you imprudent man. You just leave me—" I had moved away from him so fast that I had not noticed how close I was to the edge of the board upon which we stood. I lost my footing and I slipped.

"Lass!" I felt Garret's hand grip my wrist as I dangled off the side of the catwalk. I looked down then back up at him, horrified. This is why I hate heights. "Hold on," he said to me.

"What else am I to do?" I growled these words at him. His hand slipped from my wrist to my palm. "Pull me up!" He grunted something I could not understand. I felt my hand slipping from his. I looked down at the stage a good drop below.

"C'mon." He reached his other hand for mine. "Give me ya other hand, lass." Fear and worry was on his face. I looked at him and then down at the floor that would break my fall and my neck, no doubt. I reached my other hand for his and as I did so…I slipped from him and I fell.

I felt the rush of the air against my body. I heard Garret's voice, but I cannot remember what he said. So, this is what falling feels like, I thought to myself. I could not scream. I could not breathe. I fell.

But I never felt the hardness of the wooden stage. My heart raced. I am dead. I closed my eyes. Something caught me, I felt it, but it wasn't Garret. My eyes caught sight of a glint of white and then…

I fainted.

* * *

"Horror...horror...horror..."

Reviews, savvy?

-EOL


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

That damnable Scotsman! She uses him to hide from me, but she knows not that you cannot hide from one who has spent his entire existence in hiding. You can never rid yourself of a ghost. Always watching, waiting—closer than she can ever know.

I am bound to her helplessly and she to me without choice or reason. It is fate and no one—not even a ghost can trick fate, the cruel mistress of my life. Fate rules above me and punishes for me for my crimes. Just or unjust, it does not matter. Fate trumps all.

I am well aware of my character faults, but I do not deserve this eternal punishment! Yes, I have sinned, as the religious ones would say. I am of no particular faith. God laughs at me. I laugh at Him. But that rant is for another day…I have killed in cold blood. I have reason, I assure you. I kill in the name of love. I killed for Christine and I would not hesitate in spilling blood again. Gore stains my hands forevermore, and I care not to cleanse them of it.

I am an observant phantom. I know all of Little Belle, and her failures and her burdens, as well of the ghosts of her past. I know of her dead man and lover Julien. To be wed, they were. She thinks I have not noticed the small band of gold on her left hand. Disgusting.

And I know of the father she never knew. I know of her drunkard and disgusting mother who forced her to live in filth and disease. A mother—a cruel woman, who had treated her so poorly—the same woman that blackened and broke her body. I saw the scars. I know.

I know of her small dead girl—Belle cries her name in sleep: Michelle. I have ever so kindly replaced these night terrors with sweet visions…and my music's hypnotic sound. And she hides!

I know of her previous reliance on the horrid alcohol and her first man—how they were tore apart after their little girl died a most slow and painful death for such an innocent child. I sympathize. I am a kind and all-knowing ghost.

I know the darkest parts of her past. I have lived them myself. This ghost sympathizes. She, this beautiful creature of the living, is not much different than her shadow, this ghost.

Why does she flee?

I never let her stray too far. I could never keep myself from her. This ghost is her guardian with his watchful eyes and protective gaze. He is always there—in her mind, whether she is aware or not—I am there. In body or in spirit—I am there. Always.

Unwanted or not, I remain closer than she could ever know.

I had stalked about my castle as she followed that bothersome Scotsman as he attended to his trivial tasks. I never linger for too long in one place; either following just ahead or behind. I rely on the shadows as my concealment and they are my loyal companions.

She searches for me in the shadows. Her wandering brown eyes brush over me, but never seeing where I am. She will stare at me, but never see. I have perfected the art of invisibility after having many years of practice.

Looking down from above, I watch and listen to the Scotsman speak to her. I am enraged, but I remain were I am. I had developed a pain in my temple for every time I see the pompous brute. He has no right to even speak to her. He does not understand. He could never know as I do.

I became preoccupied with my own inner demons. They ridicule me and taunt me. They threaten me and speak evil, evil thoughts. I cannot suppress them. It pains me greatly. And as I fought with my inner demons, the two below me on the catwalks had been forgotten. Until…I heard Belle's dismayed voice.

I look down and to my horror the incompetent Scottish swine is dangling Belle over the side of the catwalk—Belle! My inner conflicts were forgotten instantly at the sight of this scene unfolding in front of my vary eyes! Horror!

She will fall! Belle! I moved swiftly and expertly down the ropes and through the mess of boards and wire. Down, down I went. I landed silently on a low platform, well below Belle. I will have one chance, if this Scotsmen shall fail, to catch her. This Garret would not be able to save her and if anything were to happen to her—

She falls from his hands. He cries out. I react instantly. I cut a single rope with my dagger ready in my hand. I run to the end of the platform from where I stood and I leap into the air like a dark bird taking flight, my hand catches a rope, which swings me into the falling path of Belle. I catch her body in my arm, which almost knocks me to the stage bellow. I hold tight to the rope, but the weight of us both is too much. My hand, gripping the rope, starts to slide down, while the other holds an unconscious Belle against me. I have no choice but to subject myself to rope burn if we are to escape unseen.

I clench my jaw and down we descend. The rope's friction against my gloved hand is great and searing pain, but it must be done. My feet hit the stage with a thud. I do not take a moment to recover. There is no time. I take Belle in both of my arms and I flee into the shadow.

I hurry to a nearby wall passage. I kick a stone in the wall with my foot. A click sounds. I hurry in and it slams behind me. The passage is dark and dank; filled with sounds of the scurrying vermin and dripping water. I pause to catch my breath. Belle is unresponsive in my arms. I panic.

I run through the dark stone tunnel, careful in step. It is almost pitch dark, but I know the way. Sight is not necessary. I turn sharply to the right after exactly thirty-seven strides. I pause at a divided fork in my path. The rightmost way leads to the _prima donna's _room, the middle leads to a hallway near the dormitories for the members of _corps de ballet_, and the leftmost leads to my dreary domain.

A foolish thought passes through my mind.

_Take her to your lair. _

Only disaster could come from doing such a thing.

_But she will be safe there. _

No, only danger would come to her there.

I remember luring Christine down to my world…disaster. I will not make the same mistake with Belle. Old sorrows return. I bury my grief as I stride forward. Through the length of the tunnel, I walk.

Belle grows heavy in my arms as I close the passage behind me and hastily make my way to the dormitory where she has lived for the past year. I must leave her in the world of the living.

I must prepare for my managers return.

* * *

It seems to me that this story is not receiving much attention, but I will continue regardless.

-E.O.L.

"I do not understand, nor do I try, but now I know...that the music can never truly die."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Diary of Little Belle

"Oh, Belle! There you are!" My eyes snapped open. I sat up with a start, but immediately fell back after a wave of dizziness washed over me.

A very worried looking Mary-Ann (she was the one who had given me this diary) had discarded her bags. She was at my bedside in an instant. "Are you all right, dear?" She did not wait for my response. Instead, she decided to plop herself down on my bed and feel my forehead as though I was ill.

I groaned and pushed her hand away. I shut my eyes. I do not remember going to sleep, nor walking to the dormitory. I do not even remember lying down in my bed for that matter. I would remember such a trivial thing…would I not? I would—

"Belle, I am so sorry I had not been here. If I would have known I would have dropped everything." She tried at that point to embrace me like some long lost friend that she had not seen in years. I moved away from her arms. Well, as far I could move back on my bed, which was rather small. I did not want her comfort or concern. I just wanted to figure out why I cannot remember…

"You must be so tired! Oh, you look horrible…"

Quiet! I must think. Who does Mary-Ann think she is? She comes in here and acts like I am a great friend o her. She is no friend of mine. No one can be a friend of a crazy woman.

I close my eyes to escape Mary-Ann's words and the gloomy dormitory. I inhale deeply. I can smell a faint scent of sandalwood and spices…and then I remembered.

Garret.

Falling.

A glimpse of white.

And then…I fainted.

But who had brought me back here? And to my bed? If someone or something had not caught me, I would not have survived the fall…

I recalled Garret's face filled of both terror and regret as I dangled from his grip. He cried out as I fell. I had fallen and invisible arms had caught me?

But I remember a glint of white so well!

Then nothing…perhaps I had fainted? That would only make sense.

"Your face is pale." Mary-Ann grasped my hands in hers. She stared at me with her forever annoying concern and affection reflecting in her blue eyes. "And your face is pale, dear."

I pulled away from her and stood. I dare not trust my legs yet. I felt the dizziness again. She rose next to me as she pushed her blonde hair out of her face. She smiled at me. A sad, sad smile.

"We have searched all over this theater for you for a good time now, Belle…" We? Everyone must know of this mad woman who disappeared after taking a great fall from the catwalks and never hitting the stage bellow. "That Scotsmen—what is his name—is a complete mess. He goes on about how he let you fall...and it is his fault. Oh, Belle, the poor man is mad," Mary-Ann sighed.

"Garret?" My voice was weak. I had nearly forgotten him.

"I believe so, but I'm not one who spends time with those of his kind." She paused. "You know what I mean, Belle. He is a stage hand after all and they are not the most clean and sober men…" Here she goes; lecturing me like I am a child when she is only a few months older than me.

"I know," I reply. "It is nothing. Don't worry." These words are forced.

"It's not that I do not trust your judgment. I just do not trust him," she admitted. "He had everyone looking for you and you are here!" She hugged me. This time I let her and even managed to return it halfheartedly. "Who would have thought you were sleeping in the dormitory!"

"I don't know anymore," I mumbled more to myself. She released me. She looked at me sadly.

"Nor do I," she agreed. "I just don't understand either. I mean how, if what the Scots fellow—Garret said is true, how did you not—I mean—you didn't fall or maybe you did, but you did not hit the stage…" Her voice drifted off as confusion took on her girlish features.

"Mary-Ann…" She looked at me for a long minute as I found my voice again. "I don't know how I got here nor do I remember."

"I know, dear. I was hoping you could tell me." She looked truly sympathetic for this crazy woman.

"I don't remember," I lied. How could I tell her?

"It does not matter anyways," she exclaimed. "You are whole and well and that is enough!"

Little Belle is well? No, my dear Mary-Ann. Little Belle who has slept with her dead man, wished with death, and listens and pleads with a ghost of whom only she can hear is not mad. No, she is far from mad! If only she knew…

"I can only imagine what you've been through." she looked genuinely sad. "I am truly sorry, my dear, about Julien. I know he was dear to you."

Upon hearing her mention his name, I grew very angry at Mary-Ann. She has no right to speak of something that she does not understand. Oh, my Julien, how I wish for you now!

Mary-Ann must have sensed my annoyance because she backed away from me. Without another word, she picked up her discarded bags, placed them on her bed. She glanced at me with a most sorrowful expression on her face.

"I am truly sorry, Belle," she said. Then she left me there in the dormitory. Alone. Again.

***

I remained there, in the dormitory, pondering my near clash with death. I cursed my ghost for interfering. I had wanted to die. I cursed him with any and every name I knew and some I did not.

It was him. It could have been only him. I felt his ghostly arms and I saw his phantom mask. I can even smell him now. He infuriates me so! I hate him!

At least I have been spared from his music. That cursed music that sobs and cries. That same music which sometimes sympathizes and is kind. That music is pure torture, an addiction to your ears if they hear it once.

It must be the end of holiday if Mary-Ann had returned! Oh, God in heaven!

They must know by now. They know. They all know. They know of little Belle and her dead fiancé, Julien, who were to wed, but the cancer claimed him, and she kept him even as his corpse began to rot, she kept him. She kept him all to herself and even slept with his dead body!

And they must think her crazy after somehow surviving the fall.

I suppose I should be grateful that my ghost had saved my retched soul from death, but how can I be when I long so much to be with my Julien?

I wish I was back with my Julien. I ask the impossible. One more night with my living Julien, that is all I ask.

I pray to God and he ignores my pleas. I do not blame him. He frowns down on Little Belle and her madness.

"Oh, Julien, my dead husband to be, how I wish you were here!" I had cried that aloud as I sat on my bed, wallowing in the sorrows of my life. The sorrow and grief finally came and I cried and cried. "Julien, my love…"

***

I thought of my Julien one last time as he was when he was alive.

My big and strong Julien... He was indeed the most beautiful man that I had ever met. Not just because of his features, but also of his heart.

I remember…he was somewhat built and tall. He had dark hair and kind eyes. Anyone could just look at him and melt. He was my savior.

My love.

Julien gave me everything in the world, not because I asked, but rather because he could. He was a gentle and smart man…a literary genius, if there was ever one. He adored me and I him.

Oh, I miss him so. I miss his touch…I miss the sound of his voice…I miss his kiss.

When my world would crumble from all angles, he would be there to hold me and console me and wipe my tears away. But that cannot be. Not now. Not ever again will I lay eyes on my Julien. Never again am I to neither hear his soothing voice nor will I ever feel his tender touch.

Too much pain.

I cannot think of this now.

I cannot imagine my dead Julien as he was when he was living.

Let it wait.

***

I am forever grateful that I have been able to hide here. I have eluded the shameful gaze of those who even dare look at this mad woman. And so here I stand on the cold rooftop of the grand opera house, once again in the snow. Large snowflakes fall so slowly to the earth and land on the ground with such grace that it reminds me of my dancing…and his music.

I wish to forget him and his music…

Even now as the silence of the chilly wintry night devours the last remnants of daylight, I can feel a presence—rather the lack of a certain presence, if that makes sense. I feel a peculiar emptiness or a sort of vacant void…I tell myself that that missing piece is my dead Julien, but reason knows better.

I shudder as a cold gust of wind slices into my body. My auburn hair goes flying behind me as I wrap my arms around myself in a futile effort to shield myself from the wind. How foolish I was to make the long trek to the roof without even considering the donning of my cloak!

Snow is a pretty thing really. I watch as the snowflakes continue to descend leisurely. They remind me of the waves from my dream…the green and foamy dancers of the sea.

I think of my ghost. I stiffen. I feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle up at the very thought of his ghostly silhouette looming off in the gloom—and that colorless mask that mimics that of phantom—

I inhaled sharply. I heard the sound of snow cracking under feet from behind me. I closed my eyes tightly.

"Not, my phantom. Not, my phantom," I mumbled that over and over to myself. I do not believe it! He even stalks me now as I try to escape from the land of the living. How dare he decide to come and go as he pleases and torture me with his sweet music's sound?

The footsteps are quiet. My eyes are still closed. I refuse to look at my ghost. There is a moment of silence where only the wind is heard. There is no music. He clears his throat somewhere behind me. And to think I once thought that he was a sympathetic phantom…

"You leave me be! You are a most horrid ghost! I wish to never see you again nor do I wish for your music," I yelled these angry words. Perhaps all of Paris could hear this mad woman, but I cared not. I was angry and it was all his fault. Imprudent ghost! "Go and leave me now."

A long silence.

No music.

I heard the movement of footsteps in the crunching snow again. They were nearing me. How I hate him!

"Just go and leave me, please?" I asked this of the silent ghost whose voice I have never actually heard. Only his whispers in my ears, his dark words…those words in my head…and his music. Perhaps music is his voice?

The footsteps stopped and I felt a presence right behind me. "I ain't be leavin' ya, lass. Not after you disappear like that…"

These words were heavy with sorrow and the voice was not too sure of itself. This voice did not speak cruel words nor was it sinister like that of my ghost. Oh, how relieved I was to recognize Garret's voice instead of my ghost's.

I turned around slowly to see Garret staring at me. He looked as though he had aged many years during the short time of my absence. His eyes were reddened and his curly brown hair was unkempt.

"Garret," I mumbled his name because for a lack of anything else to say.

"Do ya really want me to leave ya alone, lass?" He looked so pathetic. "I don't know what I did, but I didn't mean any harm to come to ya." He pulled his brown cloak around himself and dusted the snow off of his arm.

"I thought you were…someone else," I managed. "I am sorry."

"Who, lass?" He frowned.

"Forget it, Garret." I turned my back on him. I stared out across the dark city of Paris. I did not want to talk with Garret, but he was better company than my ghost. He did not haunt me with his painful music and he actually tried and tried to hard to be kind to me.

"Oh, my lass, I'm sorry," he said. His voice was full of disappointment. "I shouldn't have promised that you wouldn't fall. I shouldn't have asked you up there—"

"Oh, stop it Garret!" I turned on him and stared him directly in those blue eyes of his. He stared back at me with his saddened expression. "Quit blaming yourself! It was I who went and it was I who caused my own fall. Now stop apologizing."

I had not realized how worked up I had become. My face felt warm and I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks. But I really did not care anymore. Let Garret see this crazy woman as she is. Let him see and maybe he will run. I do not care.

"Oh, lass…" He closed the short distance between us and I let him pull me into an embrace. I lost all control I had left and I sobbed into his chest once again. His body was warm and I felt safe—actually safe in the arms of this near stranger.

"You must think me mad, Garret," I cried into him. "You must."

"No, no, lass. Don't think such a thing." His voice was kind and gentle. He hugged me tighter to him still. I could smell that familiar tobacco and bourbon on him.

I sobbed and sobbed as Garret held me and whispered kind things in my ear. And we stood there, like that for an eternity.

And my ghost was forgotten.

* * *

Reviews, eh?

~ E.O.L.

"This is madness! Madness, I tell you!"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

My managers ought to have a hospitable welcome upon their arrival and who better to contemplate it other than their ghost? It is time, indeed. I have not appeared it several months…and so, I have been pondering an idea.

Every cautionary measure and probable outcome has been taken into note. There is no error that can become of such a well conspired…plan? What is the appropriate word? I suppose the term "accident" shall suffice. That is what these _misfortunes_ have been referred to in the past by the ballet rats and those most dense dandies.

I cannot allow my managers to forget who runs this theater—my theater. I believe they have yet to pay my monthly salary…interesting. I must bring that to their attention immediately lest they forget what I am capable of when my orders are no obeyed.

***

It is evening now and I grow restless. My muscles are tense. I have paced and paced for hours in a grim circle about my lair. Even my music cannot calm my savage mind. Composing is out of the question…I tried, but I grew irritated and a good number of my recent compositions ended up in the lake…

I refuse to write…I cannot. I had hoped that this writing would calm me, in a sense, but it is another futile effort of the mind and the heart. One who is incapable of love and one that is unloved does not deserve a heart and perhaps I am to remain in this way for all eternity. In this dark and this loneliness….I let my mind waste away and my body rots…and perhaps it will remain this way until the end of my days…

But…then this girl—little Belle appears before this ghost. She is so alone in her sad world. She has suffered a life of nothing but failures and disappointments. She has endured physical and mental pain that haunts her every day. She has everything that she has ever loved taken from her and now she is alone…and vulnerable and in need of guidance…

I sympathize with little Belle. I have also endured the horrors and cruelties of the world. I have been shunned away because of my face…The world never showed me any compassion.

Why in hell's burning inferno should I give a damn about Belle?

I know not why, but I am drawn to her…the feeling is familiar and it pains me greatly to remember. It is similar to the way in which Christine drew me to her, but different entirely. I understand not nor do I wish to think on it, but I must and I hope.

Again with the word of "hope". Hope is for fools and I am not, but then again, perhaps I am. No, there mustn't be any hope. Terminate it in the advancing steps. Hope kills and hope fails.

But I cannot stay away.

And I won't, but I will not allow myself to make the same mistake again.

No, not like Christine.

I cannot endure such heartache again. It shall be the end of me…

I cannot think on this anymore. My head is weary and my heart aches with such pain that it feels that it will be ripped from my very chest. On that note, I must succumb to rest.

***

Another dreary day begins as I awake to find that my mask has slipped from my face as I slept in my dreamless sleep. I replace it and rise from my bed dressed only in my dark trousers. I pace down to the grotto's shore and stare at my reflection in the murky water.

I kneel at the water's edge. My white mask, which conceals the right side of my face mocks me forever. My green eyes seem duller today—almost a gray color, which matches my mood. My black hair that boarders my stubble-covered face and mask is in much need of a trim. I run my hand through it. It is quite lengthy, indeed.

My chest and torso is etched with many scars, reminders of my past, as are my arms. A past I wish to forget, but these permanent reminders allow me not. What a sad sight I am. I have more scars than any man who has returned from war. I am a monster. My fist strikes the water's surface and sends my reflection away as the water ripples dance across the surface.

I stand and in one swift movement and plunge into the lake. I am submerged completely and the cold water chills me to the bone. I resurface quickly and intake a large breath before submerging myself again. I do these several more times, until my muscles are loose and my mind is clear.

I surface for the final time and I push my hair back from my face. I swim to the grotto's shore and pull myself up and out of the dark lake. Water drips from my body and stains the stone upon which I stand . I readjust my mask so it won't slip from my face.

After I dry, groom, and dress myself in a most dark suit with a red cravat and leather gloves, I pace to my desk and retrieve the three letters that I had written last night.; one for each of my managers and one for Belle complete with my red wax seal.

My managers will have one chance to comply with my orders and if they do not my plan will commence.

As for Belle…I am rethinking in giving her this note. After a moment of pondering the thought, I don my cape, and depart to the world of the living.

***

I had forgotten that most of the cast and my employees had returned from the Christmas holiday. This is not good. I had wished I had had one more day without these rats running about my opera house. I suppose I must resort to stealth.

I creep along the corridors and halls until I reach my managers office. I really hate that I must carry out such trivial tasks myself. I admit that I do miss the fact that Madame Giry use to deliver my notes for me. I slip the notes under their door and resort to the cover of a statue of an angel just as two figures walk around the corner, walking toward me.

One of them is that Scotsman—Garret—and some other foolish stagehand. I hide in my shadow and listen to their conversation as they near.

"I don't understand you none, Garret," the other stagehand said.

"What do ya mean, Francis?" So that's his name? Francis is the other one…hm…

"You said she fell, but she was fine…and she ain't hit the stage none either." The other man paused. "It don't make sense to me s'all. Are you sure you weren't drunk?"

"I told ya I quit drinkin'." Garret elbowed the other man in the gut and glared at him.

"Whatever you say, Garret. I can still smell this morning's bourbon on you. " The other man rubbed his pained gut. "So you gonna…ya know…" Francis winked at Garret, who stopped walking and glared at his friend. "You an' that girl…"

"Don't ya dare even think that. Her fiancé…that Julien fella just died from the cancer and she's a hurtin'. I was jus' being nice to her." I noted how Garret's face grew red. Mine did also. I was furious. "I ain't pursuing Ms. Belle. She's a grievin' the loss of him. You ain't right."

"I'm sorry, Garret," Francis said. He looked like a scared little rabbit, I mused from my hiding spot.

"Don't ya say one more thing about it, all right?"

"Yessir, Garret."

The two men clapped each other on the back and they continued their walk right past me. I took a long moment to calm my temper. I hadn't realized how tight I had been gripping the other letter. It was reduced to a crumpled mass in my gloved hand. I smoothed it out best I could against my leg.

I hastily made my way to the dormitory where I had left Belle the day before. I listened closely before entering the room so I am not discovered by a ballet rat. I place the note on her pillow with a single rose that I produce from my cloak. With my tasks done for now, I turn and depart.

I shall busy myself with my last minute preparations for tonight's opera; the first of the new year. What a...grand surprise awaits my audience!

* * *

Our favored O.G. really out does himself sometimes.

Au Revoir,

EOL


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The Dairy of Little Belle

I am to meet with the managers after practice for tonight's performance. I am in no state to do so. Julien's death really hit me today and I-I just can't…too much pain.

And that ghost—the phantom violinist—his music is in my head and I cannot escape from him or that beautiful music. I can see his ghostly dead mask in my head and I hear the cries of his violin. I had wished often that I could hide inside my own mind and be safe from the threats of the outside world—the real world—the world of the sane and the living, but alas, even in my own mind I am not safe.

I will surely go insane and if I do not lose every little piece of sanity that I have left I will surely die of his music. I will die of it and no one will notice or care that little Belle is gone. They will celebrate the passing of this crazy woman. I can picture it now…

Mary-Ann just burst in through the door. I must go to practice. I shall write more later.

***

They want to rid themselves of me—this crazy woman. I could feel the uneasy tension ever since I set foot in their office and I could only hope that they don't send me away…I have no where to go…I have no one. I would die.

I had walked into the managers office with my head bowed and my hands clasped together.

"Good day, Ms. Rousseau," the shorter manager with the odd gray hair greeted as I entered. His name was Andre, I recall now.

"I wish it was," I managed as he closed the door behind me. I moved toward the far side of the room.

"Well, do sit down," Firmin, the other manager I hate, said in a most irritated tone. He sat at his desk.

"Monsieur Firmin, do be more sensitive," Andre said as he moved across the room and sat down next to his partner.

"Please do sit down, Mademoiselle," Firmin said in a far more pleasant tone. He glared at Andre.

"Oui, Monsieurs." I did as I was told. The chair was stiff and it hurt my back as I leaned against it. I watched as the two shot each other looks back and forth. I just wanted this to be over so I could return to the world of my dead loves.

Andre spoke first. "Mademoiselle, this is a very delicate situation and it should be handled with the utmost care and furthermore—"

"What in God's name is wrong with you?" Firmin interrupted. "How dare you keep a dead—"

I jumped at his outburst.

"Quiet yourself!" Andre smacked Firmin on the arm and glared ay him then turned his attention back to me, while Firmin sulked. "I—we understand that your fiancé Monsieur Julien BaDeau passed in our absence and we understand that you kept his…body here for three days before seeking help…or authority…"

Tears threatened to fall. I stared at my lap. I knew what was coming and I dreaded it so.

"We don't like this situation any more than you do," Firmin chimed in. "The police—they want to ask you a few questions."

"But I have sent them away and they should not harass you unless you leave these walls, Mademoiselle," Andre added.

"Do not think of this as an act of charity," Firmin snapped. I flinched and wiped the tears from my eyes. "I can't do this, Andre." He looked at his partner. "I can't do this while she cries like that."

"I'm s-sorry, Monsieurs," I stutter. I don't trust my voice to say more.

"Now look here, the reason that we are protecting you so, mademoiselle, is because you are a great talent," Andre said kindly. "You are our best dancer, make no mistake of that and we cannot afford to lose you. But—"

"You are fired." I snapped my head up and stared at the two men in disbelief. Fired? Andre looked stricken with sorrow and refused to meet my eyes and Firmin glared at me.

"But you said I was your best dancer…" The tears ceased and I became angry. "Why?" I asked.

"You are corrupting the other cast members and you ruined the bloody best stagehand we have…that Monsieur Garret," Firmin explained. "You kept a dead body in this theater and you slept with it. You are not in your right mind! What would you do if you were put into our position?"

"Now, Firmin—" Andre started. I could not believe what I was hearing, but then again I had expected it. They wanted to rid themselves of this crazy woman. I did not mean to hurt any one…not Garret.

"No, she needs to hear it." Firmin stared at me. "You have two days time to pack your things and leave. You will perform tonight and you will stay away from the other cast unless you are rehearsing." He stood. "Do you understand?"

I nodded my head, unable to say anything. Tears flowed down my face and I stood and turned for the door.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle." Andre said as I opened the door.

"So am I," I replied before running down the hallway. I passed several people as I ran past them. They all turned their heads and stared as this sobbing crazy woman who sought relief in the dormitory.

I threw open the door, once I was there, and I thanked God that it was empty. I locked the door behind me and threw myself down upon my bed and buried my face in my pillow as I tried to digest what had happened.

I had just been fired.

I had no where to go.

My life was over.

I have nothing now.

I might as well die.

Two days.

***

I cried for what seemed like hours. I cried for myself, my dead Julien, my little dead girl Michelle, for my mother and father, and for my ghost. I cried until I ran out of tears. Someone knocked on the door, it was probably Mary-Ann, but I told them to go away and they did.

I don't have a life outside of this opera house. I have no family no friends. Nothing.

Without my dancing I have no purpose.

I turned my head over and stared at the wall, when I spotted a crinkled envelope and rose resting upon my pillow. How long had they been there? I hadn't noticed when I came in. I sat up quickly and picked up the envelope. There was a red wax skull seal on it…odd. I opened it and unfolded the paper and smoothed it out. As I read the lines, my breath was caught in my chest and it fell from my hands. It read in the most elegant cursive I had ever seen:

_I must see you. Come up to the rooftop as soon as you lay eyes on this. I promise you, I will not hurt you. _

_Your Silent Ghost_

Baffled, I picked up the note and read it again with shaking hands and wet eyes. This could not be, I told myself. My ghost summons me now? I set the note down and pick up the rose. It is very red and very pretty, I suppose. The thorns had been removed with care and it has a black ribbon tied around it.

I remember the very first time I saw my ghost; he was near the florist shop…and I remember my dream…I smelled roses…

_I promise you, I will not hurt you._ That sentence by itself replayed in my head. Why would he write that? Unless he thinks I am afraid of him, which I am not. Oh, I hate my ghost, but he is sadly all I have left…I guess.

In two days, I will be forced to leave…and then…I am dead.

And I do miss his music. I hate to admit it, but I do.

And I suppose it wouldn't hurt to thank him for this rose…

I wipe the tears from my eyes and my woes were temporarily forgotten. I inhale the aroma of the rose. It was sweet.

I quickly grabbed my cloak and I slip out the dormitory door. I pull my hood up to hide my face from the theater rats. The last thing I need is to be confronted by some ignorant jerk.

Suddenly, remembering the ghost's song. I smiled. I think I heard it in my head. I think I smiled…I hastily make my way to the roof where my ghost is waiting for me. I practically jump up the stairs taking two at a time.

***

I step out onto the snow covered roof. It is a very beautiful sight, I suppose. The snow is still falling and is forever pretty, if you like that sort of thing. I walk past the looming gargoyles and stand near the foot of a large angel. It's expression is fixed and it seems to be staring down at me in sorrow, but it is just a statue after all. I turn and my eyes search for my ghost among the many looming figures and shadows.

I cannot see him.

I had not realized that I still held the rose in my hand. I bring it to my nose again and breathe it's wonderful scent. And at that moment I heard a light thud from behind me. I turn.

He—my ghost was there. I could see his dark silhouette leaning against the bottom of a hellish gargoyle' feet. His arms were crossed and one foot was pressed against the statue's base. His posture was casual even for a ghost.

As I slowly neared him, I could see he was dressed in his dramatic black clothes. The wind was blowing his hair and his cape that I thought was so pretty. He looked alive, solid, like a man enjoying the cold wintry wind, the view of the city, and…

I stopped. I stood ten feet from him.

_Belle._

His lips hadn't moved, but I heard his voice and he spoke my name.

_Belle, my little Belle…_

I wanted badly to cry out to him, but my voice betrayed me. Words refused to form as I stared at my ghost. And that's all I could do is stare.

_Words are unnecessary_. He could read my thoughts. Of course he could.

I shivered as a cold gust of wind blew. His head turned toward me for the first time. A strong emotion overcame me in that instant. I closed my eyes tightly to hold back tears and I gripped the rose in my hands so tightly I felt its steam snap in my hands. He was doing this to me, I knew.

I opened my eyes and was met with two glowing green orbs staring into my eyes. I nearly fell backward. My breath was again caught in my chest and I felt light headed.

My ghost was standing directly in front of me. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his shallow breathing upon my cheeks and nose. He stared at me with the most intense expression I had ever seen before. His eyes bore into me and it felt as though he could see into the dark depths of my soul.

I closed my eyes to escape him. I now regretted coming to him. Why had I in the first place? Why would I come to one who has caused so much misery and pain?

_Look at me_. Again he was inside my head. His lips remained motionless.

"No," I said.

"Open your eyes." His voice was low and threatening. I obeyed. "Look at me," he commanded.

I marveled in the way that his lips moved as he spoke and how the sounds he uttered was his voice and not of the voice inside my head. These were his words and his voice.

My silent ghost speaks.

We stared at each other for a long moment. I watched as he studied me with a quizzical expression on his face. He took a step backward. His eyes never left me.

"What did you want?" My voice was quiet and weak as I struggled for the control of my voice. He continued to stare at me with his unblinking eyes and his indifferent façade. I grew very mad at him.

"You come into my life and you tell me what to dream! You torture me with your music and you summon me up here just to stare at me! A kind ghost you are!" I turned my back on him as angry tears burned down my cheeks. "How dare you!"

"Quiet," I heard him whisper.

"Quiet!" I spat at him. I turned back around. "I'll rouse the great city of Paris! You tease and taunt me with your horrid music! You tell me what to dream! You…what do you want?"

He was too astonished to find words. I could feel his groping, his shock and dismay. He turned his head to the side. I had a chance to look at him close, with his mask away from me. I could see his gaunt cheekbone and smooth skin, the huge knuckles of his hands encased in black leather and his long fingers and the delicate shaping of his nose. He was by any standards—very handsome to look at. Thirty, that is what I calculated, but no one could tell for sure. He was a ghost after all.

He jerked his head and glared at me.

"You think of such things while I stand here?" His voice was deep and strong, a young man's voice that did not belong to him. If speaking voices have name's his is a forceful tenor.

"Things like what?" I asked. I looked him up and down. He was a tall man and well built. I didn't care.

"You know very well."

"Leave me be. Go away! I don't want you here with me," I shrieked at him. "Leave me be cruel ghost."

He looked beyond me and then back at me. He shook his head, murmured something, and then ran his right gloved hand through his lengthy black hair. When he opened his eyes fully they were large, and his mouth, now that was the prettiest part, but none of these cooled my anger.

"Well?" I said.

His face was still. His big green eyes moved searchingly over me, as if he could discover in all the unimportant details of my appearance some crucial secret. I did not worry. He seemed an honest, questing being, I suppose.

"You aren't afraid of me," he whispered.

"Of course I am not. Why should I be?" This was all courage and boldness. I did for one second feel fear. Or no, it wasn't fear. It was this—the adrenaline in my veins had lessened, and I felt…happy. As odd as that is.

I was looking at a ghost! A true ghost. I knew it. I knew it, and nothing would ever take the knowledge away. I knew it! In all my wanderings amongst the dead, I have talked to my memories and to my lost ones.

But he was a ghost.

He was a real and true ghost.

I smiled. "You thought I was afraid of you? Is that what you wanted? You come to me when my fiancé is dying and you play your music to frighten me?" He winced. "Are you the fool of all of the ghosts? How could such a thing as that frighten me? Why? You sustain yourself off fear—"

I paused in my rant. It wasn't only the way in which the softness of his face seemed vulnerable, the seductive quiver of his mouth, and the way his eyebrow met the hidden other to frown but not to condemn or forbid. It was something else, it was something crucial that had occurred to me. This creature did thrive off something, but what was that something?

A horrid and fatal question, I had realized it was.

This creature fed off something…but what was it?

My heart skipped a beat, which really frightened me. I put my hand to my throat as if my heart were there. It always seems to be there when it should be dancing in my chest.

"I will come and go," he whispered, "as I wish." His voice gained strength, deep and masculine and so dark. "There is no way that you can stop me. You think because of every waking hour you dance with your murdered kin—yes, yes, I know that you think you murdered them all. Your cruel mother, your father, your little Michelle, Julien, such a foolish arrogance, that you were the cause of their deaths—you think because of that, you can command a ghost? A true ghost, a phantom such as I?"

"Bring my mother to me," I demanded. "You are a ghost. Bring them to me. Bring them back to the world of the living. Bring me my little Michelle. Bring them back as you are, if you are such a ghost! Make them ghosts, too. Give me back Julien—give him back to me without the pain, just for a moment—only one small sacred moment. Give me my daughter…give me my little Michelle to hold in my arms."

This wounded him. I was quietly amazed, but I stayed as I was.

"Sacred moment," he said bitterly.

He shook his head, and looked away from me as if he was disappointed, but mostly upset by my remark, but then again he seemed thoughtful and he looked back at me. I found my eyes wandering over his person. I traced his hands with my eyes and the shapes of his long and elegant fingers hidden away in leather, and his flawless visible face. He was beautiful.

"How dare you," he growled. "I cannot give you _that_."

"I did not mean—"

"I have been denied the joys of the flesh and so it will remain." He frowned. "You think God listens to me? You think my prayer counts with the angels?"

"You pray?" I asked. "What are you doing here? Why are you here? Why have you come? Why are you here—in my sight and within my hearing?"

"I wanted to come and you wanted me to come!" he said crossly. He looked painfully defiant. "I go where I desire to go when I wish, as perhaps you have noticed. I walked about the streets of this retched city waiting for you. I stalked about the opera house where I wait for you! I could have came into you room and into your bed whenever I wished!"

"You want to be in my bed," I retorted with a sarcastic smirk.

"I am!" he declared. There was a flash of white and then we were back in the dormitory. I was laying on my bed and he was sitting on the side of it.

"What did you do?" I nearly yelled at him.

"I am a ghost and I will do what I wish."

"I knew you would. I hate you." I glared at him as I shifted my weight on my pillows.

"See? I am in your bed." He leaned forward on his right hand. "Do not even think of it. You will not conceive a monster by me. I want something far more important to your life that the plaything between your legs. I want you!"

I was speechless. How dare he!

Furious, yes, still furious, but speechless. I hate my ghost!

He sat back and looked down in front of him. He looked comfortable on the side of my bed. He bowed his head and allowed his hair to fall over his face. When he looked at me again it was a puzzled look.

"This should be easier," he said.

"What?"

"Driving you mad," he answered. His lips formed a cruel smile. "I had thought you mad already. It should have only taken few days…a week at the most…"

"Why do you want to drive me mad?"

"I like doing such things," he said. Then a strange sadness overcame him. His brow was knitted. "I thought you were mad. You are almost…what some would call…mad."

"Except I am still sane," I retorted. "That is the problem."

I felt as though I was under a spell of sorts. I could not keep my eyes from wandering over him. I could not stop studying all of the details of him—my ghost. His old cape, the way his eyes were sharpened, and the way in which he moistened his lips with his tongue from time to time as if he were human.

"Why did you show me that dream? The dream—"

"Do not speak of it," he growled. He leaned toward me. He was so close that I could kiss him if I wanted, which I didn't because I hate him so.

I leaned away from him and then I slapped him on his uncovered cheek. I had slapped him twice before he realized what I had done.

He quickly rose and moved away from me. He looked at me with such confusion and anger. I stood and moved toward him. I punched him in the chest and he did not even flinch. He moved back a few more steps as if it were a game. It did not phase him.

"The dream came from you and you taunt me—"

"Do not! I warn you!" He cursed and pointed his fingers in my face as he backed up and puffed out his chest. "Silence on that matter or be subject to such a wrath on your world that you will wish you were never born…" His voice faded. "You think you know pain? You think you understand pain? You are so proud of you pain…"

He looked away from me and crossed his arms. He had said something that had displeased himself. His eyes searched about and he backed even further away from me.

A deep sadness took on his visible features. His eyes looked truly sad. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I could not touch a ghost.

"What hurts you?" I asked.

He looks back at me with that sorrowful expression. I see that sadness of the entire world in his eyes. I feel as though I should cry. I stepped closer to him and hesitantly reached out and placed my hand on his arm. I had been expecting my hand to fall through him, but it did not.

"What kind of magic is this?" I asked in disbelief that I was touching my ghost.

"Magic?" His eyes shined through their watery haze. "There is no magic."

"How did we get to this room from the roof?"

He shrugged my hand away and closed his eyes.

"I am sorry…ghost." I guess that its what I shall call him since I do not care to know his proper name.

I moved closer to him and stared up into his masked face. His eyes were shut tightly, but I saw a lone tear escape and trail down his cheek. His mouth was a taut line. He looked as though he was in great pain. I felt horrible, as if I were somehow at fault for his pain that he was sharing with me. I was flooded with emotion. I felt tears well in my eyes as I gazed upon my sad, sad ghost.

"No tears," he said quietly. He opened his eyes and stared at me. "I must return you."

"What do you mean?" I asked quite confused. "Return me? I am in my dormitory, am I not?"

"This is but an illusion."

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Penny for your thoughts?And just a little note: this fic may up its rating due to Belle's...um...well...I'm sure you smart persons can use you imaginations.


	13. Chapter 13

I still do not have many readers or reviewers...but since I am compelled to write I shall continue regardless.

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Chapter 13

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

Magic? There is no magic…not anymore. Magic is but an illusion—a trick at best—a manipulation and conjuration of the senses to fool and weaken the comprehension of thought and logic, leaving the mind in a most vulnerable state to be swayed by the puppet master. A charm, a trick, a lie, an altered reality. Magic—no such thing exists. No magic. No hope. Terminate it in the advancing steps. Only an illusion—and its master—this phantom.

Perhaps this ghost is nothing far from an illusion itself, but then she breaks the barrier between the living and the undead with her touch. To think with her mere touch! Unwanted emotions and past memories flood back. The dam is broken. There is no turning back now. There is no retreat.

"No tears," I said quietly. Had I uttered these words as I strived to recover from my grief? I could not bare this anguish, not with her here. She feeds this pain. She commands it. "I must return you."

"What do you mean?" She asked as she gazed up at this phantom in her confusion. She does not understand what power she holds over this ghost. Her power is great and dangerous. There is sadness there and pain. "Return me? I am in my dormitory, am I not?"

"This is but an illusion," I answer. This confuses her further, I muse to myself. There is a long silence exchanged between ghost and mortal.

"Do not take me back." I was astounded by her words. Is this defiance?

"You dare command me?" My brow knitted.

"Tell me what you want," she said. "You said you wanted to drive me mad. Why? For what reason?"

"You see…" My words were slow. "I know who and what you are. Here, I find that there is perhaps something better here than merely driving you mad. You feel superior is this regard, having held deathbed hands and watched as your loved ones parish, but you are afraid…but of what? Applaud yourself, you have managed to astound a ghost."

"I don't understand…" She looked down. Her body shook. Her heart pounded. These were all symptoms of fear. Death is a good thing to fear. But ghosts?

"How did you cheat death?" she asked. I almost laughed.

"You ignorant, cruel girl," I whispered. "You look angelic with your brown hair, and your sweet face and huge eyes, but that is your illusion." I turned from her. "I did not cheat anything or anyone." I paused and buried my grief. "You wanted me to come, you wanted this—"

"You thought so?" Her voice gained strength with anger. "When you caught me thinking about the dead and pleading with death? Is that what you thought? And you came to what? Console? Deepen my pain?"

I shook my head and took several steps away from her. My illusion shattered at that moment. We stood on the roof once more. The snow was falling still and the city was dark. I turned on her in an angry flash.

"Very pretty still," I said. "And at your age. They—you friends—they hate you for your pretty face, you know it? Your good friend—Mary-Ann, the blonde one with the shapely body and smart husband, and before him the string of lovers that she cannot count. She thinks you have a prettiness that she can never earn, produce, or paint on. She hates and envies you. As for Jacques—you recall your first husband? He loved you, yes, he loved all, but he could not forgive your prettiness either."

"Why do you know Jacques?" She asked. "What do you know about my life? How do you know?" Tears burned down her cheeks.

"I speak what you know," I replied. "I see the dark passages of your mind, I know the cellars where you yourself have not been. I see there in those shadows that your father loved you too much because you resembled your mother. Same brown hair, brown eyes. And that your best friend laid with your young husband, Jacques, one night." I paused to let her wallow in her anguish.

"Stop this!" She regained her strength. "Have you come to be my personal demon? Do I deserve this? I? And you tell me that I am not responsible for those deaths? How are you going to drive me mad, I would like to know? You're not sure yourself. Look at you. You shiver and you're a ghost. What were you when you were alive? A young man? Maybe even kind then, and now twisted out of—"

"Stop," I had commanded her. "Your point is clear."

"Which is?" She asked defiantly.

"That you see me clearly, as I see you," I answered coldly. "That memories and fear are not enough to make you tremble. I was very wrong. You seemed a child, an eternal orphan, you seemed so…"

"Say it. Weak?" she asked.

"Perhaps," I answered to quickly for her liking. "It is not a word I favor."

"Why do you want me to feel pain and fear? For what? Why? What did the dream mean?"

I felt my face go blank with perhaps what was shock. I raised my brow and then I tried to speak, but I changed my mind. I could not allow this girl to defeat me at my own game. She would wish she never challenged me.

"You could be beautiful," I said. "You almost were. Is that why you fed on alcohol and let your pretty shape go to waste long ago? You were thin as a child. But you covered yourself, but to hide from whom? Your husband? Your fiancé?"

She did not respond.

"You are perhaps even a little beautiful," I whispered with my cruel smile as I deliberately tortured her. "But that will not make up for your sins." I looked at her, reading her deepest thoughts. I said nothing more.

"Where does this lead?" She asked. I had succeeded in hurting her. She was vulnerable…too vulnerable. She looked at me with pleading eyes.

"Little girl at heart," I sang darkly. "And wicked and cruel as little girls can be. Only bitter now, and needing of me, and yet denying it. You drove them away…but only this ghost stays."

"And tell me what to do, ghost," she whispered. She pulled her cloak around herself and shuddered from the wind. I was immune to the cold and snow.

"What am I to tell?" I study her features. She was sincere and at loss.

"What is all of this to you and why do we speak of it now?" she asked. "You are covered in snow, but you are not cold. You are not warm either, are you? You look like a creature of the dark with your phantom's face, but you aren't a man. You aren't even alive. Where did you get the music, the incredible heartbreaking music—?"

I was furious. "Spiteful tongue," I growled. "I am older than you can dream. I am older in my pain than you. I am finer. I learnt to play my music to perfection before I died. I learnt to play it. I possessed a talent for it in my living body that you can never understand with all of you dreams and fantasies."

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I am going now," I said. "I will come when I please, you can be sure of that." I turned my back. My cape billowed behind me.

"You have no right. Whoever sent you must take you back." She made the sign of the cross.

I almost smiled. "Did that little prayer do you any good? Do you remember the miserable funeral Mass of your daughter, Michelle? Why, I should play a hymn for you. My violin can play it. It is not common, but I can find it in your mind and play it, and we can pray together."

"It hasn't done you any good," she said, "praying to God." Her voice was strong but soft. "Nobody sent you."

I turned and stared at her.

"Get out of here and leave me be!" She crossed her arms and glared at me.

"You do not mean it." I said. "Tell me that your pulse is not ticking like an overwound clock. Your tireless desire of me is obvious. Jacques, Julien…You have met a man in me such as you have never seen, and I am not even a man."

"You're cocky, rude, and just horrible!" She glared at me and her face reddened to my satisfaction. "And you are not even a man. You are a ghost of someone young and morally vulgar and ugly!"

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I only hope that those who are infact reading this and reviewing this tale do enjoy it. Please review and let me know what is wrong with my story...

-Erik's Other Lover


	14. Chapter 14

Enjoy...But be warned of sudden death.

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Chapter 14

The Dairy of Little Belle

And to think I felt sympathy for my ghost!

"You do not mean it." He said. "Tell me that your pulse is not ticking like an overwound clock. Your tireless desire of me is obvious. Jacques, Julien, Garret…You have met a man in me such as you have never seen, and I am not even a man."

"You're cocky, rude, and just horrible!" I glared at him. I blushed. What he spoke was true, but he angered me so. "And you are not even a man. You are a ghost of someone young and morally vulgar and ugly!"

This hurt him. His face showed a cut much deeper than vanity.

"Yes," he said while he struggled for self-possession. "And you love me, for the music, and in spite of it."

"That may be true," I said coldly. I nodded. "But as you have said you have miscalculated. I was a wife almost twice, a mother once, an orphan perhaps, but weak, no, bitter? Never. I lack the sense that bitterness requires."

"Which is?"

"Entitlement" I answered. "…things that ought to have been better. It is life, that is all, and you feed off of me because I am alive. But I am not so vulnerable with guilt that you can come and force me from my wits and drive me mad. No, not by any means. I do not think you fully understand madness."

"No?"

"The raging crazy," I said, "This is only the first stage. Then something harder comes, something that makes mistakes and has limitations…regret's nothing, absolutely nothing…"

Now I was the one who let their words trail off because my most recent memories had come flooding back to me, of seeing my mother's casket on the last day. Oh, mother let me take you into my arms. The graveyard of the day of Michelle's burial, her small headstone next to all of the large graves. The flowers were heaped upon his stone and I had looked to the sky and thought it would never, never change…that this agony would never go away. There would never be any light in this world again.

I shook it off and looked up at him.

He was studying me, and he seemed himself almost in pain. It excited me.

I went back to the point, seeking for it, pushing everything from my mind, except for what I had to realize.

"I think I understand now," I said. A relief settled over me. A feeling of…love. "You do not. That is the pity. You do not."

I let my guard down. I though of only what I was trying to fathom here. I wanted only to be close to him, my ghost and this. This he would want to know. He might. He surely would understand, if only he would admit it.

"Please do enlighten me," he said mockingly.

That is when a terrible pain swept over me. It was too vast and total. It took hold of me. I looked up pleadingly at him, and I parted my lips, about to speak, about to confide, about to try to discover out loud with him what is was, this pain, this sense of responsibility, this realization that once caused unnecessary pain and destruction in this world and one cannot undo, no, it will never be undone, and these moments are forever lost, only remembered in distorted and hurtful ways, yet there is something finer, something more significant, something both overwhelming and complex that we both knew, he and I—

He vanished.

He did. He completely vanished and he did so with a cruel smile, leaving me with my outstretched emotions. He did it so to leave me alone in that moment of pain and worse, alone with the awful need to share it.

I gave a soft moment to the shadows. He was not there. I looked about the snow covered roof. He was gone. The looming gargoyles and watchful angels stared at me.

He was gone.

"I know your game," I said quietly. "I know it well, ghost."

The wind blew.

What time was it? How long had I been speaking to my ghost? I am late for rehearsal, no doubt! I ran.

As I ran, I thought of Jacques. I still loved him. He still loved me. I thought of my little Michelle dying while I slept. I thought of Julien on his deathbed. I thought of envious Mary-Ann. I thought of Garret and his sad blue eyes. And then I thought of my ghost…

***

Rehearsal went as well as it could have, I suppose. Nobody spoke to me and I spoke to no one. I danced as best I could, but my heart was not in my dancing today. I found myself searching for my ghost's mask as I danced. My eyes wondered about in the shadows, but he was not to be found.

Mary-Ann glanced at me once, but said nothing.

Afterward, I hurried off to the dormitory so as not to be harassed by any of the cast. Once inside I stopped and listened.

He was not about, the ghost musician.

I could hear no music. I fell upon my bed and buried my face in my pillow.

I looked around at the dusty room that had become my home for the past two years. The thought at leaving returned. I had been fired. I would be forced to leave…with nowhere to go…I had little money…I could send a letter to Julien's mother…

No. That wouldn't go well.

I could send a letter to Jacques…but I would be intruding on his world. He could have remarried by now and he probably had beautiful children…I could not do that to him.

I could talk to Garret...and…and…

No music. Not even the slightest dimmest sound of music.

I deliberately thought of him, the phantom musician. I pictured his mask and his deep-set eyes. He might have appeared less seductive to someone else—perhaps. But then perhaps to no one at all. What a well-formed mouth he had, and how the narrow eyes, the detailed deepened lids gave him such a range of expression, that he so refuses to use; to open his gaze wide, or sink in cunningly and in angry secret.

Again and again, and perhaps forever, old memories threatened me as I thought of him. He was linked to my pain. The most agonizing and excruciating bits of my memories flooded back to me—my mother crazed and dying, tearing the tube from her nose, and pushing the doctor away…all these images came as if it were brought forth by the wind in sudden gusts. I shook my head and looked around me. Then the veil of the past slunk away as the present blanket wanted to enwrap me.

I refused it.

I thought again, but this time I thought very specifically of him, my ghost, restoring him in my imagination; his built an tall figure, his old black cape, which I always thought was so pretty, his white phantom's mask, the violin he held and played so divinely with his long fingers encased in their leather…My unmusical mind could not recall the melodies he had played, no matter how hard I tried.

A ghost, a ghost, you have seen a ghost, I thought.

I should rest now. I should be resting for the show tonight…but I cannot. My heart sank as I thought of leaving this theater—my home. It sank even further as I thought of leaving without Julien…and even further still as I thought of never hearing my phantom's music ever again.

I stood and dried my tears on my sleeve. I walked over to the large mirror on the furthest wall of the dormitory. The other girls would spend hours in front of it doing their hair and make-up…I stared at my reflection. My brown hair hung around my shoulders in a mess. I had dark circles around my brown eyes. My skin was pale and lacked color. The remnants of my tears stained my cheeks. I sighed and reached into my pocket, pulled out a ribbon, and tied my curly hair back in messy bun.

I walked out of the dormitory. I walked about the opera house. I walked in the corridors and in the halls. I walked and walked. The thoughts tried to return, but I told them to go away. I walked. I walked because I knew as long as I walked, neither memory nor dream could take hold of me.

I thought a lot about him—the opera ghost I had come to know…and hate and his music, which I so loved. I remembered everything that I could. I remembered that he had worn a very dark and formal suit…that he was very tall, at least a bit over six foot, I calculated, remembering how I had looked up at him. I remind you at the time I was not intimidated by him at all!

***

I walked about the opera. I paused every now and then, taking a moment to appreciate the small details in it's architecture and design, its elegance and comfort, and a sort of mystery that I had grown accustomed to and perhaps even loved, but that would soon be behind me. I was leaving soon.

I hadn't told a soul yet. I could not even bring myself to tell Mary-Ann. Only the managers and I knew…I wondered if my ghost knew…

Again, with him! Can't he leave me be? The once safe haven of my mind is no longer private nor can I shut him out. He appears there, and lingers—his music plays, it taunts me and entrances my mind. This hunger I feel when I am in his presence is unlike anything I have experienced. It is a great longing, not only of lust, but of something greater…something fatal…

I push these dangerous thoughts from my mind. And I continue my walk.

As my walk brings me to grand foyer, I spot Garret talking to a few of the other stagehands, leaning leisurely on the staircase's rail. I cursed myself for wandering about. I turn to go.

"Lass!" I turn. Garret is standing behind me and panting from his short sprint to me. "Can I 'ave a word with ya, lass?"

"Walk with me." I said those words hastily because I wanted to hide from their others eyes and words.

"Yes."

We walk for a long time in silence before we come to the old chapel. I walk in and sit down on the stair. Garret sits beside me.

"Lass," his words were quiet and slow as he spoke in his Scottish accent that I had come to adore, "I don't understand what happened the other night…I'm not sure if I want to but…" He paused and studied me for a long time.

"Garret…I wish I could, but I can't explain it."

"You can, lass, but you won't," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry, Garret." I watch as he turns his face from me. "Garret?"

"Lass, I jus' don't know. I would like to think ya feel the same way 'bout me that I feel about ya." He turned back to face me. I wanted to cry. There was sorrow in those beautiful blue eyes of his. "I know ya don't, lass. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said nothing'." He stood up to leave.

"Garret." I grabbed his calloused hand as I stood. "Don't go."

"Lass?" I searched his eyes for something besides the emotions I found their. I felt guilt and something…else.

And that's when I leaned forward and kissed him. I pressed my lips to his. I pulled back from him and stared into his eyes. We exchanged unspoken words before he pulled me back to him and he kissed me. And I kissed him back. I could smell his tobacco and I could taste his bourbon. And I kissed him still.

And then I thought of my ghost.

***

It was a little before eight when I finally made my way behind the stage where the dressing rooms were. I heard, behind me, whispers…I ignored them.

"Belle!" I turned and there was Mary-Ann. She was already dressed in her costume and she looked very flustered. She ran up to me and grabbed my arm and pulled me into the closest dressing room and closed the door.

"Where have you been?" she asked as she seated me at the vanity and went about searching through the hanging rack of the costumes for tonight's performance. "I looked for you for about an hour…I had to stall with the managers. They about blew a fuse."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled as I stared at myself in the mirror. I remembered what the phantom had said about her. _See hates you. She is jealous of your prettiness._

"It's alright. I just worry is all," she said as she came back holding my dress in her hand. "We have to hurry. Stand up." I did.

I removed my dress as she retightened my corset. She slipped the costume over my head and quickly tied the back and sat me back down at the vanity again and started applying the stage make-up.

"Who is he?" Her question startled me, causing Mary-Ann to make a mistake in the line she was drawing near my eye. "Look what you did." She wet her finger and dabbed at it and continued.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It's none of my business, Belle," she replied. "But you seem distracted and you haven't been yourself lately…after Julien's death…you just haven't been the same. So either you have a new fellow or your heart suffers."

"Mhm," was all I could manage. I hated her. Julien wasn't all that was wrong with me…how dare she.

"Well, there." She set down the make-up brush and smiled. "Let's go. You look wonderful."

"Thanks." I stood and followed her to the door.

"You almost didn't make it," Mary-Ann chided as she opened the door and we stepped into the hallway filled with the performers and propsmen, all dressed in costume, talking and laughing together.

"Belle?" I shook my head. "Belle, did you hear anything I just said?" I shook my head. "Get moving, it's starting."

***

It was well into the second act, now. Mary-Ann and I were standing just off the stage watching as the audience clapped as the lead soprano—our _prima donna_—finished her solo, when there as a loud crack that sounded as thunder. I heard a cry and a woman scream. The audience gasped, but I could not see with all of the cast members blocking my view.

I pushed past them and on the stage, lying there, bound in rope with a sack over his face, next to the fallen backdrop.

I ran forward and Mary-Ann grabbed my arm.

"No, Belle!" She yelled at me. "Stay here!"

I pulled from her and ran onto the center stage while the baffled audience watched in horror. The managers were running from their seats, shouting curses and apologetic words. "Close the curtain!" Firmin yelled. "Drop the curtain, you fools!"

I knelt down next to him. The man's hands and feet were bound and there was a rope around his neck. The curtain fell, just as Firmin and Andre made it to where I was.

"Get back from him!" Firmin commanded.

I ignored him and pulled the sack off of the man's face, only to drop it. a scream escaped my throat. This couldn't be. No, no, no.

It was Garret.

"Oh, God!" Andre grabbed my arm and pulled me away. "Come with me, Mademoiselle." He pulled me to the side of the stage. "Now, listen…"

I stared past him and the dead man on the stage. The face was white and contorted and stuck with the expression of pure and utter terror. Tears burned down my face. I looked up to the catwalks above and there, in plain view—he was there—the opera ghost. The was a swish of his black cape and he was gone.

I called out to him. I freed myself from Andre's grip and fled.

My ghost—he had killed Garret! He had killed Garret…

Angry tears of sadness and hate poured from my eyes. I wiped the make-up from my face as I ran behind the stage. I came to the spiral stair that led to the roof. I sprinted up the stair. Taking two at a time.

I burst through the doors to the roof and I was met with the chilly air and darkness.

"Ghost!" I screamed. "Phantom!" I was answered with my own desperate voice. "Ghost! I know you did it…" I started to cry and I fell forward on my hands and knees. The snow was cold.

I started to cry. "Ghost! Ghost! I know you're here…come to me," I cried. My tears fell into the snow. I closed my eyes. "No, you're not gone. I know you're not."

I opened my eyes, still on my hands and knees. I was met with dark dress shoes sprinkled with snow. I looked up. It was him—the ghost. He was staring down at me. There was no emotion on his face. Nothingness.

He held one gloved hand down to me. I hesitantly took it and he pulled me to my feet. He did not release my hand right away and for that moment everything was forgotten. Everything that had just happened was forgotten as he bore into me with those green eyes of his.

"Your eyes are wet." His words were slow and without the smallest hint of emotion.

"Because of you," I spat. "Why—you killed—why did you do it?" I was visibly shaking, but I didn't care anymore. "Why did you kill Garret?!"

"I like doing such things."

I flew at him in such a fury. I punched his chest and I clawed at his visible face. He reacted quickly and grabbed my wrists and spun me so my face and chest was pushed against a nearby statue. The stone was cold. I hadn't had time to blink.

He was breathing heavy. I could feel the heaving of his chest against my back. He face rested against my neck with my wrists pinned above me. I tried to free myself, but the harder I tried ,the harder he pressed me into the angel's base.

"Why'd you do it?" I cried.

"Do what?" He breathed into my ear.

"You killed him. You killed Garret." I closed my eyes tightly to hold my tears back. "Why, ghost, why did you do it?"

He pressed his face against my shoulder. I heard a muffled cry and there was a long silence. He released my wrists and moved away from me.

I watched as he touched his exposed face. He then looked at his glove as if he were astonished that his tears were in fact wet. He then looked back at me with a most sorrowful expression filled of regret.

"Why?" I whispered.

"I saw you…"

"What?" I walked toward him.

"I saw you and…him…" These words pained him. He trembled. The former statue and indifferent ghost I knew was gone. "I saw you with him…in his arms…"

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be furious. I wanted to scream.

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I'm still not getting a lot of reviews on the fi. C'mon guys and gals! Thank you to those who read and review!

Not So Happy Day,

EOL


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